♂ ILLUMINATED BOOK, kotaline's Phasmas

[kotaline]

Shockingly, perhaps, considering the last visit Hopkin had in Helios, he and Wickwright Finch are safe, safer than they have been for a long, long time. Symonis and Corby are not like other Jawbone Men, and yet, if Hopkin were pressed to explain why, he would find himself quite unequal to the task. Books, though capable of illuminating unto others, cannot read themselves, and Hopkin, despite being perhaps the very first book to speak its own contents, has very little ability for interpreting anything. It has always been Wickwright's burden to interpret things for him, and where he cannot go, there is always a Finch close to hand.

Finch is here now, for instance, in the flat world, at Hopkin's side while the real Wickwright slumbers safely in Helios. He points to two flat men, working at a strange task in a strange study. "Observe," he whispers, and his words curlicue into nothingness, soft and short-lived and delicate. "These are the men to help us with the problem of the Auvinian Jawbone Men."

Hopkin is not shocked to see Symonis and Corby. The True World has always mirrored the Wide World, even if only he seems to bear witness to the parallels. He attends to Finch, who is relating stories to him that he already knows. Even understanding that Hopkin is the Source of this world, Finch seems to have difficulty accepting that there might not be some area in which he is better versed than the book boy. In truth, none of Finch's stories have ever been new to him, and the only ways in which Finch has ever surprised him are through his better understanding of the True World's geography, as well as his better wit. But Hopkin is meek to all Finches, and listens, and absorbs, and agrees, saying nothing.

"I am a clever man, but they are wise men," Finch explains. "I observe the world, and they spend their lives locked up in rooms thinking about what I've observed. Scholars are all like that, but everyone has their place, I suppose." Hopkin regards them silently and Finch asks, "Shall we approach them?"

"The men of Auvinus need a clever man." Hopkin suggests.

"Clever men solve problems," agrees Finch, "My solution in this particular instance is to ask someone else."

Hopkin frowns but he trusts Finch's judgement as much as he would Wickwright's. He may know all of Finch's stories, but he does not have Finch's mind, and he is not a clever man. He is just a clever man's book, and just as Finch could not tell him anything new, he could not in any way improve upon Finch's judgement. He nods, and a door emerges in the side of the tower that leads to the study. It is beautiful, like that same study that he lies asleep in in the wide world, but the Panymisian symbols which decorate the room in the wide world have all but vanished, replaced with symbols of the nine families, of the bone, and of Symonis and Corby's families in particular: A two-faced coin and a raven's feather. In the true world's context, they evoke ancient stories and Jawbone lore, but in the context of the wide world, they inspire no confidence in Hopkin. Symonis and Corby no longer seem to use their family symbols in the wide world, and Hopkin cannot blame them.

"Symonis," Finch calls, in a voice so similar to Wickwright's that Hopkin feels as if he is experiencing the same moment twice. Symonis looks up, and smiles. "Finch," he remarks. "What brings you to our tower? More news of the changes in the outside world?"

"The Source has promised to cure the men of Auvinus," Finch replies. "One is cured already, and how is that for a change? I ask you now to help us affect a greater change, rather than simply just making me list them for you."

"Oh no!" replies Corby. "We cannot make changes. We merely study them and interpret them."

"But one is changed already! So then, interpret that. Tell me why he changed." Finch counters, relating the story to them entire. When he finishes, Symonis and Corby are already making excited notes, murmuring amongst themselves, checking charts and tomes which line their study walls. Finch gives them time, and Hopkin struggles not to wake up. Watching the story unfold even from within the confines of the room was sickening, and a few Auvinian Jawbone Men made of sticky, slick words like 'grotesque' lumber around the room, looking for a place to expire even after the story is ended. Corby takes the measure of one as if it were fine cloth.

"That is fascinating!" says Symonis. "Fascinating. It is something that should not have happened, and the implications must be enormous."

"Yes," Finch says impatiently, "But what does it mean? How do we do it again?"

Symonis beams at him. "I do not know."

"You do not know?" Finch asks.

"We only know as much as the Source, do we not?" asks Symonis, gesturing to Hopkin. "Therefore, if he does not know somehow, we cannot possibly know."

"But then we can never cure them!" Finch says, and for the first time, Hopkin speaks, anxiously avoiding the sight of the Auvinian men made of text, who have begun now to decompose.

"That is unacceptable," Hopkins insists, his voice rising in pitch. "I will not be made into a liar!" And he stamped his small foot. As he did, the whole flat world seemed to tremble, which shocked him enough to speak more gently. He was already close enough to waking without jarring himself more. "They are like this because of us- Can we not tell other stories of their exploits?"

Symonis shrugs. "Do you have any other stories?" he asks. "I do not. The Auvinian Jawbone Men chose to estrange themselves from us, and in our eyes, that," he gestured to the inky remains of the last Auvinian corpse, "Must be their truth."

Finch seizes onto this thread eagerly. "Toure is an aggressive scoundrel. His words were harsh, but the blame lies with him. Your Finch went to seek his stories, did he not?"

"He did," Hopkin says hesitantly.

"Then we have done all we can." Symonis settles. "If the Men of Auvinus have fallen so to ruin that there is not material enough to save them in the wide world, then there is nothing we can do for them here."

"But it must be documented so that we can study it!" says Corby, and soon the room falls to the soft scratching of quills and the loud sound of debate, as Symonis and Corby stretch and pull at this truth until they have made all they can of it. Hopkin wakes to much the same sound in the wide world-- but to his surprise, what is being discussed is his own self.  

[kotaline]

reserved for an rp with roo  

[kotaline]

more helios stuff  

[kotaline]

more helios  

[kotaline]

aaaand just in case  

[kotaline]

The world of the Men of Bone began in the West.

There, it was said, the boy of bone had lived, in a land now submersed by the Western Sea. There, in the heavy forest at the foot of the Silents, Finch, Bunting, O'Neill, Clarke, Kingsley, Gravesend, Yawley, Yates, and Dytel had begun the Society to pursue the truth, and there, Finch and Bunting had roamed for an era, until time and circumstance had led Finch to fly east, following the footsteps of O'Neill and the Collection.

Now there is little to tie the Jawbone Men to the West, but the most traditional remain there, far more faithful and secluded than the men of the north, who pay lip service to Panyma, the men of the east, who are lured by the Council's own search for truth, and the men of the south, who are slowly devoured by the glutton god. Free from the shadow of the illustrious Finch, Bunting is their leader, a soft woman in the jibes both Finch and Bunting had felt since their infamous separation, but a stalwart and strong man in actuality, intimate with only the deep woods at the foot of the silents, and the few idealistic families who chose to follow him there long ago.

To the alarmingly enthusiastic Helian faction that had detained Wickwright for so long in the capital, the Mishkanite Jawbone Men might as well be on the other side of the moon. Nevertheless, they had arranged for supplies to get Wickwright as far as the outskirts of the forest, at which point, they supposed, perhaps, the brush would part and wood elves would take care of things. They knew that nature tended to provide, but had not seen a tree themselves in several generations, and were not keen on that particular new experience.  Many years ago, Wickwright had been a city boy like them, but decades of traveling had put him in a position to fend for himself in the forest if needs must. At his age it is not a welcome prospect, but the idea of being the first Finch to ask for the said of a Bunting in almost one hundred years is even less palatable. The less aid Bunting gives him, the more he can preserve his dignity.

Thus, he does not rush in sending signals to his Mishkanite peers though his wagon is perched on the edge of the forest, but rather, takes his time taking inventory of his supplies, checking Tristram's health, and looking for shelter for the night. Eventually, he will have to send up a signal, whether through smoke or by bird call or by symbols carved into the new wood of the undergrowth. He has enough food for now to afford to take a night off, especially now that he's rid of Malt, to take time to hear himself think before he faces the most difficult challenge of rallying the Jawbone Men yet: groveling to Bunting.

Alone in his bag, Hopkin hears the muffled bird calls overhead, and fancies that some might be Jawbone Men, for in the deep woods, Finch and Bunting used these signals long ago. Forgotten now, the songs would not mean anything to Wickwright or Hopkin even if they cared to decipher them, and as much as Hopkin strains his ears for hidden messages, the chirping is fails to be decipherable to him even if it does have a message. Still, it is better to search for such sense in song than to fall asleep, for Hopkin is not eager to enter the True World after the disaster in Auvinus. There are few who have forgotten about the story of Finch and Bunting, and his attempts to fix the True World have been failure after failure, Toure's parting words stinging most harshly of all. How can he hope to amend a rift that Finch has not been able to fix for a century?

"Wickwright," he asks, and finds himself being lifted out of his bag, the dangers in the forest being unlikely to be the sort that would target a Plague. "Wickwright, tell me a story about Bunting."

Wickwright strokes his chin and begins, "Once in the deep, soft snow on the peak of the Silents, there lived a mighty bear-"

"I have heard the story of Bunting and the Bear," Hopkin interrupts. "Another story."

Wickwright puffs out his cheeks. "Hopkin, you know all my stories. I might as well ask you to tell me a story."

"But there are no stories of Bunting in my head after the story of the trial of Bunting and Finch," Hopkin insists. "Surely you must know more."

"That's the last one I know, Hopkin." Wickwright demurs. "No need to revive that which has passed."

"Then what are we doing now?" Hopkin insists. "If reviving that which has passed would even consist of just telling Bunting's stories?"

"We're making a new story," Wickwright says.

"And how will it end?" asks Hopkin.

"We will see that truth when it emerges," deflects Wickwright, "And not a moment sooner.  

[kotaline]

The flat world's Mishkan is rich and deep, fit for the country of origin of the oldest Jawbone families, but it makes for difficult terrain to navigate, and Hopkin, who is not blessed with any more convenient form in the flat world than he possesses in the wide world, struggles to orient himself.

He has been expecting much from Mishkan, and all throughout the trials of Helios, he found his mind straying to this moment, standing in the place which the first Finches called home. But he is lost, and all he sees around him are woods, flat but towering and endless,full of rustling inky whispers and a scurrying surrsurus of letters slinking past his feet. Somewhere in that woods are the Mishkanite Jawbone Men or, he remembers Auvinus and Helios and grimaces nervously, whatever remains of them. And one of them, he knows without hesitation, will be Bunting.

He thinks that Finch must know, too. He has not waylaid Hopkin in the true world for some time, and in the wide world, Wickwright is too cheerful, for all his efforts making Hopkin more anxious than when he was grim and furtive in Auvinus.

A bird calls, and he stops to look, the chirping, fluttering letters flying through the air in golden ink. Following the words, he stumbles into a grove of nine tall trees in a circle, and pauses, its metaphorical meaning obvious even to an inhuman book. He clambers through roots twisted into ornate knotwork and symmetrically arranged leaves until he reaches the tallest, which is a stern and imposing oak, the horns of stags decorating the trunk like strange branches.

"O'Neill," murmurs Hopkin, and a wind rustles the oak's leaves as if acknowledging him.

He clambers past to the fourth tree, a birch from whose branches finches fly when he touches the trunk, and he looks up at it, somewhat pained by the fact that it seems thinner, weaker than the others. Something is eating at its leaves, which are blasted with black holes when they float to the ground in the birds' wake.

"What is the matter," he demands, picking up a leaf, but the tree does not answer as O'Neill's did, and even if it did, what of it? Hopkin could not understand the rustling of books in Feilim's souterrain, much less the rustling of trees. He puts the leaf in his tunic, as if he could bring it back to the wide world to find a cure somehow, and the feel of it on his chest chokes him in guilt. Perhaps the sickness is plague.

Looking past at the rest of the grove, Hopkin counts them. Of the nine, there are some worse than the birch, at least. Some, upon closer inspection, appear to be petrified, dead and stony reminders of a troubled past. Kingsley's is not only dead, it has been hollowed out by insects, which crawl over Hopkin as if recognizing a likeminded spirit, and so alarm him that he shakes them off at once.

"I am a book," he insists to the insects. "You are my enemy as well!"

They continue eating at the core of Kingsley's tree, unperturbed by Hopkin's announcement. He looks back at the birch, pained.

"You are my enemy as well."

A bear lumbers into the grove and stares at Hopkin, but deems him unworthy of its attention. Moving past him, it digs its claws into the tree next to the birch with a shuddering thud that causes a shower of leaves to fall upon them both, nearly suffocating Hopkin. It rakes the claws down the trunk and lumbers off again, so by the time Hopkin retrieves himself from the leaves, he can see its handiwork, as well as gouges down the whole of the trunk which have scarred over time.

"Bunting," he says, watching the bear go. The tree is not dead, or sick, but the bear has clearly done considerable damage. The dead trees have been petrified and corrupted from the inside, but Bunting's tree's imperfections are jarringly clear and stark, visceral and real damage that makes Hopkin embarrassed to behold. The imperfect image of Bunting's tree ruins the effect of the grove and bothers his own innate need for order. He turns away from the sorry sight, but finds himself face-to-feet with something far more jarring than the scarred trunk, something staring down at him with disdain.

Bunting scooped up Hopkin before he could so much as squeak and lifted him to the height of her face. Letting him take a good look at what had become of her, she hissed, "I have tracked you all this while, Finch book."

"You will fix me."  

[kotaline]

A bird call pierces the chill pre-dawn air, drawing Hopkin from the True World and back into the Wide World. Wickwright is still asleep, in his infuriatingly, inconveniently human way, so Hopkin lies silently in his book bag, watching the swirling steam from Wickwright's breath. The patterns it makes are aesthetically pleasing to him, and this at least is one thing he likes about winter, although the cold makes his metal limbs stiff.

Another bird call breaks the silence, and Hopkin hears it clearly now, unable to pretend that he did not merely imagine it due to the shock of his adventure in the True World. It is the call of a bunting, and he must make Wickwright investigate. Clambering over to Wickwright's pallet, he shakes him, and when the Grimm mutters, he squeaks, "Wickwright Finch!"

"Mmpgh," replies Wickwright.

"That is not a logical reply," insists Hopkin, and finally Wickwright opens his bleary eyes, looking around the wagon. The bunting call comes through the woods again, and he gets up, slightly more alert.

"How many times has that bird sung?" he demands.

"Three." Hopkin clambers back into his bag, and insists, "You must seek the truth."

"While you're safe in the wagon," retorts Wickwright, raising an eyebrow.

"You said my safety is more important than yours," Hopkin states simply, burrowing back into the pile of rags which service as his blankets. His Grimm shrugs.

"Who am I to argue with the words of wise men?" he asks, pulling on his cloak and stepping out of the wagon. He pulls it tighter to his chest as the cold wind hits him. "Strewth," he mutters. "No wonder we moved to Imisus." Clearing his throat, he moves behind Tristram a bit, nervously, and shoots the bull a look.

"Do you think I still remember this?"

Tristram only snorts. Shrugging back his shoulders, Wickwright brings his hands to his mouth and lets out his own shrill cry: the sound of Finch song in a register that has only been taught to Finch men as a formality for the past few generations. Silence envelops the woods again, except for a few echoing verses, and then another call erupts from the bunting, far closer to where he stands. Taking a few more anxious steps behind Tristram, Wickwright mutters, "I'm an old fool," but answers with another volley of Finch song.

There is no response this time. Wickwright waits, then returns to the wagon, where Hopkin is sitting on his book bag, apparently having been too anxious to stay still.

"The song was not exact," he informs his Grimm, wringing the hem of his tunic slightly. "Do you not recall?"

Wickwright shrugs. "It's not exactly a song that Finch men have had call to use for generations," he retorts in his defense, but he knows that Hopkin cannot imagine forgetting Jawbone lore any more than he could imagine forgetting breathing. "Plus it's cold out there."

Hopkin frowns slightly, and Wickwright looks away. A snatch of movement catches his eye out the wagon's lone window, and he moves closer, his brief annoyance forgotten.

"Corpus bones and rotting teeth," he whispers. "Would you look at that."

Hopkin clambers up onto his shoulders to get a better view. In the clearing, moving carefully, is a girl who wears the traditional symbol of a Bunting.  

[kotaline]

"Say something," urges Hopkin, but Wickwright is staring at the girl as if hypnotized. She is approaching the wagon now, stealthily, nervously. If he calls out, will she flee? Does he want her to? Even if he opens his mouth, will there be a sound?

"Bunting!" calls Hopkin, and the girl looks up, shocked. She moves more quickly now, reaching the door of the wagon, and then suddenly she is inside, staring at Wickwright with wide blue eyes.

"Finch," she asks tentatively, and Wickwright stiffly nods.

"I am Marten," she continues, "Bunting is deeper within these woods."

The revelation is almost a relief. Wickwright finds his voice and meets her gaze. "Marten," he says, "That's a very young family."

"Relatively speaking," the girl says defensively.

"And not faring well," guesses Wickwright, looking her up and down.

"I manage," she says stiffly, her voice going slightly deeper in unconscious self defense. "Bunting has trained me though I have no living relatives who know Jawbone lore. I hear that in Imisus there is a mockingbird who is much the same."

Wickwright raises his hands in surrender and admits, "Yes, yes, my nest is lined with pestilential branches. I would not come here if the situation was not dire."

"Bunting would not teach your mockingbird," Marten replies carefully. "We have need of him here."

"I wouldn't ask him to." Wickwright retorts, thinking quietly that with her eyes so blue, Marten has provided Bunting with a mockingbird of his own. "I bring news of the outside world that I doubt he will have heard yet. Will you take me to him?"

"What is the news?" she asks suspiciously, and he waves a hand.

"It is something I would prefer to tell Bunting first."

She bites her lip and looks behind her, back at the dark woods, then at his wagon. "Leave your wagon here, it will slow us down."

"I cannot leave my ox," argues Wickwright, and she shakes her head.

"No ox. There is a remote farm nearby where we can bring it to be cared for, but you cannot bring it any deeper into the woods."

Wickwright shakes his head. Apart from Hopkin, Tristram is his most valuable possession. "How can we trust them?" he demands. "Answer me that to my satisfaction, and then I will follow you anywhere."

"Easy," replies Marten, slinging her bow over her shoulder. "The farm belongs to Ceisiad."  

[kotaline]

The woods at the foot of the Silents are ancient and tangled, but Marten darts through them fleet as a fallow deer. Wickwright is slower, his age showing, and very soon his breaths become labored. He is thankful that Marten convinced him to leave Tristram and his wagon at the farm. had he not, the journey would have been impossible.

Wickwright has been dreading meeting Bunting again all this long while, and yet, when the moment comes, he finds he is too exhausted by the journey to feel much more than a vague sense of relief that perhaps he might now get to sit down and rest. Marten makes a strange whistle, much like the whistles that Bunting and Finch were said to make to each other when they were partners long ago. Wickwright takes the opportunity to catch his breath and regard his surroundings.

If Finch is the urbane trickster of the Society, Bunting has always been the wild man. The fact that they were traditionally a pair seemed odd to Wickwright when he first learned it, ages ago in his father's dusty study, but having lived the rough life of a mendicant, he understands now. A clever man who lives a rough life knows to seek a Buntinglike partner to carry the burden. Looking up at Bunting's home, he can see that the man is just as resourceful as he is, but in a very different way.

The home is carved into an enormous tree, blasted by time and wear, with ornate carvings all down the trunk. It seems to still be alive despite this, and as Marten's whistle pierces the air, another comes from inside the tree, amplified in the cavernous space and escaping through knotholes that Wickwright now sees are hollow and ventilating the structure within. A man emerges, but he is as young as Marten, and for a moment, Wickwright feels his age all the more keenly. He had not expected Bunting to be closer to Feilim's age than his own.

Marten leans in and murmurs to him, her reddish hair getting in her face as she does so. He brushes it away, and she swats at his hand in mock irritation. He looks up, and walks over to Wickwright, calling, "Finch!" Wickwright is not sure he can return the call, it seems ridiculous to call this stripling "Bunting".

"Finch, I am Ceisiad, a charge of Bunting's. We have not yet met. A year ago, I was inducted, but few Jawbone Men go to inductions that are not for the Nine Families these days."

Wickwright's first reaction is of relief, and a very slight guilt comes moments later, when he hears Hopkin darkly mutter, "That is against our code." He coughs and extends his hand, pausing for just a second, then switching to the hand he did not fake a cough into. Ceisiad smiles and takes his hand, seemingly unaware of Hopkin's commentary.

"I have heard very little of you, but we have all heard your stories," admits Ceisiad.

"And the stories about me, I assume," Wickwright replies with a weary smile. Ceisiad looks down, embarrassed.

"There are many stories about Finch," he mutters, though here, in Bunting's glade, it is impossible not to think of the story of their indiscretion. It has hounded the pair of them generations after their partnership split.

"Some are more colorful than others," Wickwright remarks, spurring a shocked laugh from the boy, and even from Marten. He grins and the tension is broken.

"We would take you to see Bunting, but he is gone to hunt."

Marten startles subtly next to Wickwright, and he notes that she seems dismayed. "We must find him," she insists, and shakes his head.

"It's getting dark. There's no chance we'll find him if he's trying not to be found," Ceisiad demures.

"I'm a better tracker than you!" she blurts. "Let me." Looking back at Wickwright, torn, she says, "You watch Finch." Ceisiad seems about to protest, and she puts a hand on his arm, saying, "Breathe deeply."

He does so, and his brow furrows. He says nothing for a few moments, just closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he says, "You take too many risks."

She shrugs and bounds into the woods. He watches her go, and then runs a hand through his hair. Looking to Wickwright, he gestures to the tree and leads Wickwright in to rest, rest at last.  

[kotaline]

If O'Neill's manor smells like woodsmoke and venison, Bunting's tree well nigh whiffs of it. Wickwright coughs, genuinely, when he steps in, and envies noseless Hopkin, although, he considers, Hopkin has always spoken of seeing and smelling things before. Once he becomes used to the scent, he sits down gingerly by the fire pit while Ceisiad tries to get some wood to spark. "Isn't it risky to do that in a tree?" Wickwright asks, and Ceisiad shakes his head.

"Bunting made this place generations ago, and I trust him."

"Bunting always does the right thing," Wickwright remarks drily. Ceisiad flinches.

"Oh, no need to be on ceremony with me!" Wickwright replies, somewhat apologetically. "I joke too much."

"Don't joke about it around Bunting," warns Ceisiad. "He acts like all your troubles happened last week."

Wickwright laughs. "A wise warning. I had feared as much."

With the subject of his and Bunting's past looming between them once more, a moment of uncomfortable silence descends upon the hollow. Ceisiad plays with an arrow idly, though Wickwright notices his hand never leaves his bow.

"Is this a dangerous place to live?" he asks carefully.

"Oh, sometimes." Ceisiad's reply comes quick, and his hand opens and closes around the bow as he speaks.

"I'm surprised that Bunting lets Marten stay here, then."

"She's twice as strong as I am," Ceisiad rallies, more in admiration than out of chivalry. "She's lived with Bunting forever, anyway. I'm the new recruit." He looks away, crimson with embarrassment. "Bunting says I don't belong in the woods, but my father refuses to teach me the Jawbone traditions."

"Your father owns the farm that I left my ox at," Wickwright infers.

Ceisiad nods miserably. "Our lord is Panymisian and my father is tired of the risks of being in the Society. It has little profited us. He wants to become Panymisian and be done with it."

"And?" Wickwright asks, raising an eyebrow.

"And I do not," Ceisiad insists firmly.

Wickwright half wonders if his choice has more to do with duty or with Marten's reddish brown hair. Recalling Ariadne so long ago, Wickwright remembers religious duty was not half so appealing until romantic problems made it suddenly desirable to become a mendicant for him. But he says nothing of Marten.

"I hear that Bunting's good opinion is hard to come by," he says, grinning widely this time to show that he is joking.

Ceisiad laughs half-nervously, and shakes his head fervently in agreement. "I have done everything short of killing a bear."

"Have you heard the story of Bunting and the Bear?" asks Wickwright amiably.

"Only half a hundred times so far," jokes Ceisiad.

The mention of the story makes Wickwright think of Hopkin, who once, long ago, illustrated that same story for him, and he shifts so that the book bag is in a more comfortable position. "I don't suppose you have much trouble with the pestilence out here, by the Bone."

"No, no we don't," Ceisiad replies, but after that, he lapses into silence again.

Wickwright feels a growing sense of frustration, and, rather than pursue the conversation, gets up, stretching. "Everyone has a tragic story these days," he remarks. "Forgive me if I brought up painful memories for you." Ceisiad flushes red, and Wickwright supposes he has hit the mark. "Where do I rest my old bones? I'll sleep before I do more harm."

"You did no harm to me," Ceisiad assures him quickly. "You can sleep in my bed in the corner. We have no spare beds- there are very few visitors."

"Well, I would hate to impose," said Wickwright, already halfway on the pallet. "But these old bones, etcetera. Where will you sleep?"

"I have to stand watch until Bunting returns," Ceisiad replies stoically, and the last thing that Wickwright hears before drifting to his rest is the sound of a bowstring being stretched and unstretched, as Ceisiad nervously picks at it.  

[kotaline]

Hopkin screeches as he is snatched up the moment the True World forms around him. Panic rises in his chest, and he squirms desperately, begging, "Please let me go!" The wind begins to howl and the ink that made the flat trees starts to splatter against his words as they are picked up by the gale. "I do not know what is wrong with you, I cannot help!"

Bunting's grip slackens as the forest starts to rebel against her, but when Hopkin speaks, she clenches her fist again, hunkering against the forest's assault. "You don't know?" she growls. "Look at me, Source. I am a woman!"

"Are you not supposed to be?" gasps Hopkin, and regrets it instantly when he sees her face. "All right, all right! You are not supposed to be! Please let me go!"

Bunting relaxes her grip again and Hopkin gets up, dusting himself off sulkily. "I need Finch, I do not understand this world anymore. He can fix you."

"If Finch and his ego have convinced you that he is more powerful than the source of the world, perhaps you are useless after all," spits Bunting. She gestures at the wrecked forest, which is beginning to regrow as Hopkin catches his breath. "Look at what you have done to my home! Finch could not do this even in his tallest tales."

Hopkin looks up, trying to take in his surroundings when before it had been impossible, but by the time he manages to gather his wits again, the forest, too, has become exactly as it was before. He frowns in confusion, but dares not anger Bunting again by disagreeing with her. "What happened to your tree?" he asks instead, pointing to the glade of Jawbone trees, to the one ravaged by the claws of a bear.

"It is under attack. I must defeat the bear, but I cannot in this- this body!" Bunting gestures down at herself, and it is true that while she is strong enough to pin down Hopkin, who is but a small bronze boy, her frame is slender and unmuscled, her hair long and blonde, and her eyes blue as cornflowers. "I fight and rebuff this bear every day," she seethed, "But of late, I dare not approach it. If I was even like the robust daughter of a farmer, I might chance it, but this willowy frame is useless, and my head," she jabs at her skull, "Is clouded with doubts that are not mine." Pointing at Hopkin, she asks, "You are the Source! You have made me like this, but for what purpose?"

Hopkin shrugs, helpless. "I do not know. This world makes itself, and I have no say in it. How could I direct truth and give it shape? I can merely record what I see."


"Well then, you have seen something untrue," Bunting insists, and suddenly freezes, standing stock still in the clearing. Looking towards the east, she grabs Hopkin and ducks behind a rock. A moment later, the bear lumbers into the clearing, grunting and swinging its head this way and that, as if looking for her.

"Do you have no allies who can fight it for you?" Hopkin whispers as the bear slams into the tree with its great claws.

Bunting is briefly distracted by the bear, her face white with rage. She makes a quiet invocation, and presently seethes, "Ceisiad and Marten were aiding me. They have both vanished, with no trace! Is that the will of the god of Truth? To destroy me and my allies? Or is that the will of Finch?"

"Finch is no more able to change the truth than I am!" Hopkin replies hotly, incensed. "He guards it as carefully as he guards me."

"Then perhaps you should take more care," retorts Bunting.

A roar cuts through the clearing and they both look up. In the heat of their debate, their voices have become loud, and the bear has noticed them. It lumbers towards them, fixed on Bunting's frail form, and Hopkin is momentarily surprised to see it face to face. Its eyes, he notices, are as blue as hers. Swearing, Bunting grabs her bow and lets five arrows fly. Her grasp is too weak, and four miss, careening off into the trunks of neighboring trees, but the fifth hits the bear's leg, and it bellows again. Bunting takes the chance and runs, and Hopkin is left in her haste. He stares up at the bear, terrified, but it lowers itself once Bunting escaped and lumbers into the distance again, paying him as little heed as it has to the eight other trees of the Jawbone grove.  

[kotaline]

[In the depths of the forests of Mishkan, when Bunting and Finch still flew together, there was a great bear that became the subject of an argument between Bunting and the Men of Bone. Bunting swore that it was the largest and most vicious bear in Panymium, and thus the truest example of its kind. O'Neill, who was a sportsman but no woodsman, swore that he had killed a larger bear, and until Bunting could prove his case, branded him a liar. Bunting could not take the slight, and, against Finch's counsel, tracked the bear to its den, swearing he would deliver it whole to O'Neill's doorstep.


WITH anger did Bunting descend into the bear den,
And deep it was, and dark, and full of bones.
No candle lit Bunting's path, and even his keen eyes could not adapt,
But he smelled and heard and tasted, and for him this was enough.
FAR into the cavern, he crawled, listening for the bear's hot breath,
Out of reach of even the moans of the west wind,
To a world where the air was still and dead and thick with decay,
So far from the surface that even brave Bunting began to fear for his life.
WHEN at last he found the bear, he knew by just the stir of breeze,
He listened for a while, he knew not how long,
Though the bear was near, his fear flew from him softly,
And his heart fell as still as the cave he stood in.

WHEN he emerged into the sun, Finch sought his bear.

[F] I spy a Bunting, but where is the bear?
Must I spin a story to tell to O'Neill?
It is of no matter, for that is no burden,
In faith, I am surprised that I must not seek your heir to inherit.

FINCH, have some faith, for my senses are keen.
The bear slept in the dark, and poised was I to kill.
But there is no sense in killing a creature so great
Just to drag its corpse from one cave to another.

[F] NOT just for that, dear Bunting, but honour!
Without that bear's bones, you will be a liar.
O'Neill is a proud man and will not forget,
Nor does he suffer a man to break even an oath made in anger.

IF truth is made in bones of bears,
Then I will descend once more into the cave.
But I have thought, and so think I:
There is a difference between finding truth and boasting of it.
AND I will kill no animal to prove a boast,
Though I would slay every beast in this forest to find a truth.
We need no excuse for O'Neill.
I will tell him plain and humble, as should I have done from the start.

SO Finch and Bunting did tell O'Neill, who called Bunting a liar.
But Bunting had proven a truth to himself,
Without Finch's keen mind, without O'Neill's guidance,
And in his mind, it was a truth to reckon with.

WITH]

 

[kotaline]

Bunting returns in the early hours of the dawn, when the sunlight is still too weak to pierce the thick canopy of the forest. Jangling with nerves at the prospect of this very reunion, Wickwright has slept but lightly, and stirs at the sound of his heavy footsteps, though does not yet make a sign that he is awake. He smells Bunting, the sharp scent of pine sap and blood, and hears Ceisiad nervously jumping to attention. Gruff conversation ensues, the gist of which he can grasp, but not the words themselves, and then he hears Bunting approach his bedside.

"That's not how a sleeping man breathes," Bunting says abruptly, shoving Wickwright with his foot. When Wickwright doesn't move, he nudges him again. "Finch, by the bone, I have no time or patience for your tricks."

Wickwright groans exaggeratedly and rolls into a sitting up position, blinking at Bunting with not-entirely-feigned sleepiness. "Strewth, Bunting, why would I be trying to trick a Man of Bone?" he asks, checking his bad and smoothing his hair.

"You can't stop an animal from pissing in the woods," Bunting retorts irritably, and pulls Wickwright up, looking him over. Ceisiad and Marten appear by his side, and he turns to Marten. "What have you told him?" he asked her.

"I thought it might be dangerous to tell him," Marten explained.

Bunting shook his head. "We aren't tricksters here." Looking at Wickwright, he said, "The animal that I have been tracking is not an animal. We don't know what it is, but it smells of death, wreaks destruction in its path, and screams like a man when hit." Wickwright stiffens, and Bunting asks, "Have you heard of such a thing?"

Collecting himself, Wickwright demurs, "In nightmares, perhaps. Are you sure that isn't what it was?"

Bunting holds up a rabbit corpse, and Wickwright recognizes it as the source of the smell of blood, although almost all the blood has drained from it on Bunting's journey back to the tree. "The bite marks are not that of any animal or man that I know. I have tracked it carefully, and Marten managed to land an arrow last night, but other than that, we have been hesitant to approach it. The thing is violent."

Wickwright furrows his brow. "I will be careful when I leave the woods, then. I thank you for your warning."

"And what is your news?" Bunting asks, "So that we may spirit you away from here never to be seen again until the next accursed Jawbone Meeting?"

Wickwright coughs. "O'Neill has called a Jawbone Meeting," he mutters, and Bunting swears.

"We'll send Ceisiad to represent us," he decides. "Make some damn use of him for once."

"Everyone is required to attend," Wickwright insists.

Bunting draws back. "We cannot wait on ceremony with O'Neill when a violent creature is roaming the woods. No induction ceremony could be worth the damage, not even Tadhg's."

"We have important business to vote on," Wickwright deflects, "It is not an induction ceremony."

"Well, that's a first," Bunting snorts. "Does anybody abide by the rusty rules of our decrepit sect anymore? Bone's sake, Symonis is a Panymisian scholar."

"I do," Wickwright says loudly, to cover up the smaller, tinnier "I do," coming from his bag. He was prepared for it for once, but Bunting's face turns dark, and for a moment, he fears he has been discovered.

"And where is your heir, Man of Bone?" Bunting quips.

Wickwright relaxes. "Where's yours, you crusty old bear?" he replies. "I see a Marten, I see Ceisiad, but there's no fledglings in your nest."

"With his mother," Bunting retorts smugly. "My fledgling is still too young to fly."

For Wickwright, this is an unpleasant shock, and he realizes that while Bunting is worn and weathered, he is actually many years younger than he originally supposed. Older, certainly, than Marten and Ceisiad, but a fatherly age, not a grandfatherly one. Bunting pats Wickwright on the back, somewhat sympathetically.

"If you plan to announce Feilim as your heir this meeting, you don't need my blessing anymore. Buntings aren't attached to Finches as they once were. I must remain here, and my heir is of no age to travel with him. If O'Neill is trying to make you abide by the old traditions, tell him I say to go wander into a bear cave."

"You must come," Wickwright insisted again.

"Because you follow Jawbone tradition so carefully?" Bunting asks.

"Yes," Wickwright replies.

Bunting looks him in the eye, opens his mouth, but instead of speaking, lunges for Wickwright's bag, turning it upside down and shaking it. Wickwright barely has time to react, and by the time he does, Hopkin is already in Bunting's grip, struggling, shrieking a high pitched whistle of terror, but captured.

"I heard you and I smelled you," Bunting tells the Plague. "I said I have no time for tricks, and I meant it." Glowering at Wickwright, he insists, "You will tell me why you smell like the creature in the woods. Why you have come here now, with a half baked excuse to get me to leave my forest, and why your bag is full of," here he brandished Hopkin, "The same pests that have been overrunning my territory!"  

[kotaline]

By the time Wickwright is done explaining, it is nearly noon, and Marten and Ceisiad have reluctantly left to hunt for their luncheon. Bunting stays, and does not move until he has had time to process everything that Wickwright has said, but when he does, he seems even more weary than before.

"Is this what happens when you let a Finch fly as he pleases? No wonder O'Neill raised Feilim."

Wickwright does not protest. Hopkin is still held tightly in Bunting's hand, mute with terror, and as fragile looking as a dry leaf. Wickwright's unusually straightforward tale has all been for the cause of setting Hopkin free, and he cannot not rest easy until Bunting's strong hands set his Plague on the ground. He looks towards Hopkin meaningfully, but if Bunting sees, he chooses to ignore it.

"You are in a tightly sprung trap," Bunting continues, "And I am not sure if I even want to help you. But I will, if I am helped in return."

"Since when did Finch have to do Bunting favours?" Hopkin demands, and squeaks unhappily when Bunting's grip tightens on him.

"Finch doesn't. You do."

"I cannot do anything that Wickwright cannot!" insists Hopkin.

Bunting shakes his head. "You are a Plague, even if Finch is trying to convince us all that you are a contribution. We have Plagues of your size scattered all through the forest, for the most part wild and unhelpful. But they can smell death from farther away than any human can, and they can discern what is a corpse, and what is the walking pestilence."

"No," Wickwright interrupted. "You will not use my book to hunt down whatever it is out there in your forest."

"Come now," Bunting grunts, "Surely you know what it is in that forest. I saw the look on your face, Finch. It's a Plague, isn't it?"

"If it is a Plague," Wickwright begins, "It is a more developed one than my book." A mental image of Sir Sloane, that giant, bloody knight flashed into his head. "If it is a Plague, it'll be humanoid, but you have no idea how dangerous it could actually be, Bunting."

"If it's humanoid, surely it can't be too formidable. It's just elusive," Bunting retorts. "If I kill it, I can leave the forest to attend your meeting without anything on my conscience. Helping me helps yourself, at no cost to you. You prefer it when there are others around to do the dirty work, right, Finch?"

"This isn't about any family grudges, Bunting!" Wickwright begs. "Come to the meeting. There's a Council port near here, and I am a Councilman now. They have the tools to investigate Plagues."

"You are a Jawbone Man," Bunting insists, "And Jawbone Men are sworn to aid each other. I will not break your book."

"Then I have to accompany you," Wickwright insists, "To keep Hopkin safe."

"Finch, you are a spry old man, but old you still are! Marten had to practically carry you through this forest, what makes you think you could possibly keep pace with me on a hunt?"

"I cannot let you take Hopkin alone."

"So you don't trust me?" Bunting asks incredulously. He gets up, and for one brief, terrible moment, Hopkin feels as if the life is being squeezed out of his frail metal body. He squirms, and Wickwright sees it, leaping up to point at the offending aggression.

"I will do it!" Hopkin squeaks before things can degenerate even further. "Let me do it."

The two Jawbone Men both startle, and Wickwright warns, "Hopkin," but Hopkin's mind has been made up.

"Bunting is right," he says to his Grimm. "Giving aid to another Jawbone Man is in our code. Trusting another Jawbone Man is in our code, and there is no one that a Finch owes trust more readily than a Bunting."

Wickwright does not look like he trusts Bunting at all, but with even Hopkin decided against him, he can see no profitable way to fight the decision. Surely Ceisiad and Marten will side with Bunting on any dispute made in his own home, especially one that would resolve a problem that must also threaten Ceisiad's family.

Bunting begins to pack. "Then I will kill the creature tonight," he declares, "And escort you to Shyregoed tomorrow."

Wickwright, who has seen Plagues and the world outside of the forests of the Silents, is not sure that Bunting's plan will suffice.